You built your house
on land borrowed from time,
salt and earth mixed with tears
to form the mortar, walls erected
from posted letters of longing,
the roof a sky full of recollections
recorded during a lifetime of travel.
When asked for your address
you handed them a business card:
The House of the Absent
The Street between Love and Death
A Stranger’s Night Asking Who am I?
There is no history in poetry, merely
the context of when the moment
gave forth to your lines recounting
how you finally arrived home.
-R
